


It's Only Wierd If You Make It Wierd

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Good Enough [5]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2012-2013 NHL Season, Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Panic Attacks, Tourette's Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: “For fuck’s sake, Pat, we’re not on the ice right now, you don’t have to be so fucking self-sacrificing all the time,” Brad scoffs.“Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself, Brad? It’s not ‘self-sacrificing’ for me to find ways to help the people I care about. Now finish your sandwich, you’re going to get cuddled and that’s all there is to it.”[For anyone scared to read this because they think Tourette's is some horrible disease, it's not. It's commonly portrayed in media as the behavior disorder that makes you scream swear words at people no matter how inaccurate that really is.]





	It's Only Wierd If You Make It Wierd

**Author's Note:**

> Just to warn anyone upfront, Brad has a really bad panic attack at the beginning of this fic for literally no reason except that sometimes they just happen for no reason. It's described in a fair amount of detail and modeled heavily after a panic attack I had at work once.

You would think, after he’s had as many of them as he’s had, that Brad would be able to figure it out on his own when he’s having a panic attack.

You’d really think that.

This time, it’s a day off in the middle of the 2012-2013 season, and he’s in his apartment throwing together some lunch. Not just for him, though; Patrice is coming over to hang out. So he’s piling up a plate of half-sandwiches and some fruit juice that he has in his fridge for some reason, and everything is normal. Until he’s putting mustard into the last sandwich and suddenly can’t breathe.

Brad’s not sure what’s going on; he drops the knife on the counter so he can hug his own ribs, leaning against the wall to try and rest because maybe it’ll help. It doesn’t - he ends up just sliding down to sit on the floor. When he tries to breathe out, it feels like there’s a knife in his sternum, so he’s perpetually trying to suck in more air when his lungs are already full.

He’s been injured enough times that he remembers this, that “pain scale” in emergency rooms that goes from 0 to 10 to describe how bad something is. This is definitely a ten. Brad can’t move and he can’t breathe and it’s so agonizing he can’t even think after the first few seconds.

The door opens and he hears movement - oh, right. He left it unlocked. Brad can’t look up, just feels the vibrations in the floor as Patrice comes closer. Any of his other team mates would see him acting like this and tell him to cut the shit because it’s not funny. Patrice isn’t any other team mate, though, and he immediately runs over and drops to his knees.

“Brad, ohmygod, what’s going on?” Patrice asks, hands on his shoulders.

Brad doesn’t answer because he can’t, it still hurts so bad if he even _thinks_ about trying to breathe out or talk. He just shakes his head and curls even tighter into himself, eyes closed and still trying to suck in more air because that hurts less.

“Stay there, I’m calling an ambulance-”

That’s so much not what Brad wants to hear right now. He’s probably dying of something, but that’s less important than not appearing in tabloids or whatever, so he manages to unclench one of his hands and grab Patrice by the wrist. He still can’t even manage a squeak but something must be showing on his face under the excruciating pain, because his friend stays there, crouched in an awkward position. At least Patrice will sit with him while he dies in agony on his own kitchen floor.

“Okay, Brad, let go of my arm. You should try to at least get to the couch so you can lay down, alright?”

Brad tries. He really, really does. But moving just pulls the invisible knife deeper into his chest. Through the sensation of having been stabbed, he’s able to be slightly surprised when Patrice manages to pick him up and carry him there, grunting with effort the whole way. Arms around him. Palm rubbing his back. Brad doesn’t know how much longer this will keep going until he passes out, because he still can’t breathe normally. His face is jammed into the joint where shoulder meets neck, and Patrice is mumbling something that he’s not sure he’s hearing right.

Oh. Whatever it is, it’s in French. That’s why Brad doesn’t understand. The pain has gone down to about an 8 instead of a 10, now, and he can finally breathe out again. It’s a relief to feel the air finally leave his lungs. Now it’s down to a 5. Brad closes his eyes and leans all his weight into Patrice as the pain fades to a 3 and then disappears altogether. When he looks up and sees the clock on the microwave, it’s only been twelve minutes since this weird episode even started.

“Fuck,” Brad mumbles, afraid that it’ll come back if he tries talking too loudly or moving too much. “Sorry about that…”

“Are you okay?” Patrice demands, hugging him even tighter and almost dragging him off the couch. “What was that? You scared me so much, it looked like you were dying!”

“I don’t know.” Brad shakes his head. “I was just standing there and suddenly I couldn’t breathe… um, I think I finished making lunch, though.”

His friend snorts. “At least you’re focused on the important things… are you going to be okay?”

“Probably…” Brad thinks for a minute. “This could’ve just been a really bad panic attack, I think I saw something once on tv where people panic and it’s just like having a heart attack or whatever but then they’re fine after.”

“What were you panicking about?” Patrice wonders, getting up and pulling Brad after him so they’re both standing. Brad is still in his arms at first and wants to stay there, but then he lets go. “Did something happen?”

“No.” Brad shrugs and his fingers snap. “They just happen sometimes.” Then he notices what he did. “Oh shit, Pat, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you so hard…”

Looking at the already-blooming bruises on his friend’s wrist, Brad’s fist bangs into his leg like it’s trying to punish him for hurting Patrice.

“It’s no big deal, you didn’t do it on purpose.” Patrice sighs and changes the subject back. “Brad, if this happens again, you need to call someone for help. You really scared me.”

“What, you think I _wasn’t_ fucking scared?” Brad points out, glaring at his feet as he heads back into the kitchen.

“I know you were, but that’s not the point.” Patrice sighs a second time and leans against the counter. “What do your panic attacks usually look like, Marchy?”

“I don’t know. They’re all different. It doesn’t happen that often, though. One time back when I was still in the AHL I just started throwing up right before a game and kept doing it for like half an hour. They wouldn’t let me play because of it.”

“Okay… so is there anything I can do to help you be less anxious?”

“I like to get cuddled,” Brad answers before he can hear what he’s saying. Then he covers his face with his hands. “Fuck, sorry, that was a tic…” Technically, it _was_ a tic, in the sense that he didn’t mean to say it, but it’s also true. He does like to get cuddled and he knows he’d absolutely _love_ to get cuddled by Patrice. “Um. I don’t know, man, it’s not as bad when we’re hanging out, because you already know what’s going on with me and I know you don’t mind.”

They sit on opposite ends of his couch with the plate of sandwiches on the middle cushion between them. Brad starts cramming his face while Patrice channel surfs, because he doesn’t usually have tics while he’s eating.

“Ticcing aside, _do_ you like to get cuddled?” his friend asks, slowly and without looking at him.

Brad finishes chewing and swallows. “Uh. Like. Yeah, but only by the right people. You don’t have to cuddle me, Bergy. It’d probably be really weird for you.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

“For fuck’s sake, Pat, we’re not on the ice right now, you don’t have to be so fucking self-sacrificing all the time,” Brad scoffs.

“Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself, Brad? It’s not ‘self-sacrificing’ for me to find ways to help the people I care about. Now finish your sandwich, you’re going to get cuddled and that’s all there is to it.”

Brad laughs, which he knows was partly what Patrice was going for there, but what’s really funny is just how damn serious his friend is about it. He finishes eating his sandwich like he was told, then just sits there awkwardly for a second. “So are you just going to do it here on the couch or what?”

Patrice shakes his head. “Your couch isn’t big enough for both of us to lay on comfortably.”

Brad raises both eyebrows at what’s being so heavily implied, but doesn’t say anything as he gets to his feet. He wonders how Patrice can be so unaware of how awkward this really is for him; being best friends is one thing, but Brad’s also been in love with said best friend since sometime during his second season as a full-fledged NHL Bruin. This isn’t going to be easy.

At least they don’t actually get under the blankets or anything; they just lay down on Brad’s bed and he gets spooned by his friend. It’s not so bad, and also means there’s no way Patrice will be able to feel when he inevitably loses his grip and gets a hard-on. Even thinking about that, Brad still tries to relax, because if he stays tensed up Patrice is going to notice and ask what’s wrong. So he loosens up his muscles, takes a few deep breaths…

…and wakes up an hour and a half later, still in the position he was in when he fell asleep. He doesn’t even remember drifting off or anything. Patrice is still wrapped around him from behind, too. When Brad twists around to look, it’s easy to tell Patrice didn’t also sleep, because he looks bored as all hell.

“How did you just stay like this?” Brad yawns, face still two inches from his friend’s.

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Patrice murmurs. “You seemed like you really needed a nap.”

Brad chuckles. “How is this not self-sacrificing, again? Also this doesn’t convince me you’re not perfect, no matter how much you say you’re not. You’re _clearly_ fucking perfect.”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Marchy.” Then his expression brightens a little. “You look like you’re feeling a lot better, though.”

“Yeah.” Brad rolls over in his arms so he doesn’t have to keep his neck twisted around like that. “You’re all soothing and shit, Bergy. I don’t know why I didn’t want you to cuddle me, you can cuddle me any time you want.”

Patrice looks slightly embarrassed at that. “I did my best,” he mumbles.

Brad’s not really sure what he wants to happen here - he could try to kiss Patrice and then feel guilty and awkward about it, or he could get up and go to the kitchen for snacks and be depressed for like a week because he wasted this chance. Or, third option, he could just keep lying here like the idiot he is and wait for the choice to be made for him.

Thinking about this makes him get ticcy - his shoulders jerk and his eyes scrunch closed, which kind of breaks the tension because now Brad’s thinking about his fucking behavior disorder again. He opens his eyes and Patrice is frowning a little.

“What’re you thinking about?” Brad asks.

There’s a few nervous seconds of pause. “This,” Patrice whispers, then leans closer and kisses him. The world could end right now and Brad wouldn’t care. Because Patrice’s kisses are perfect, just like everything else about him is perfect, and Brad never wants it to end. It does eventually, though, and Patrice looks slightly apprehensive. “Was that okay?” he murmurs.

Brad nods. “Do it again,” he whispers back, and Patrice complies.


End file.
